


love always wakes the dragon

by sebbykurt



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Blood, M/M, Major character death - Freeform, also sex, but was not intended to be so, could be taken as dub-con, kind of vague references to murder, lots of blood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-26
Updated: 2014-01-26
Packaged: 2018-01-10 02:35:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1153748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sebbykurt/pseuds/sebbykurt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hannibal Lecter never meant to fall in love with Will Graham.  At least, that's what the doctor tells himself as he compares the curve in Will's spine to the night sky's curve around the stars.</p>
            </blockquote>





	love always wakes the dragon

**Author's Note:**

> I honestly have no idea why you decided to read this story, but I suppose any fic written for the hannigram pairing isn't going to be all roses and rainbows, so you probably know what you're about to get yourself into. However, if this is your first fic for Will/Hannibal, I suggest you turn around right now and start out with something a bit more tame. Make sure to read the warnings if you still feel the insatiable need to continue despite my promptings to do otherwise. Bloody lovemaking awaits you, and I can assure you that what you're about to read does not end with an entirely happy ending. Enjoy xx

Hannibal has grown quite fond of the curve in Will’s spine.  It reminds him of snow-capped mountainsides and the tight string of a bow.  The awkward nobs of his spine remind Hannibal of the bumps of a dirt road, hidden by thick forest and blue sky. 

It leaves Hannibal in an awfully awkward situation, as he’s started losing his composure around the other man. 

In some ways, the older psychiatrist guesses he’s always seen it coming.  From the very first moment he laid eyes on the young man, he’d been torn between hunger and longing.  Somehow, longing won over the former, and now, rather than feeding off of Will’s impressive organs, Hannibal is bending him until he breaks.  Until he lets it all go and kisses his superior up against a wall covered in blood.

In the privacy of his own room, with the curtains drawn and the blankets pulled loose over his feet, he tips his head back against his pillows and imagines the way Will’s lips would taste after he’d bitten them raw.  The _awfulwonderful_ way he would have to stop himself from tearing at the torturous temptation of bloody flesh.

Will would be awkward and twitchy, his fingers itching at Hannibal’s skull and neck and jaw and stomach. 

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” he would say, as Hannibal traced the curvature of his spine with lingering precision. 

There would be a dead body lying in the corner of the room, smiling with lifeless eyes as Hannibal undid the belt around Will’s waist.  Hannibal would have to choke back laughter as he pressed his fingers against the other man’s conflicted arousal.

“Just don’t think about it,” Hannibal would whisper.  “Let me take care of you, Will.”

And Will would whine because _fuck_ , he’d caught on to who Hannibal actually was, and maybe some part of him was very well aware of Hannibal’s role in his current mental state, but the hot hands sliding across his stomach would confuse and startle him into unthinking bliss.

Will’s soft sighs of pleasure would taste like poisoned sugar on Hannibal’s tongue, and he would swallow down every pitched keen with an awfully impolite eagerness. 

That was the problem with Will Graham, Hannibal realized.  He brought out the _rudeness_ in Hannibal.  Made him into nothing more than the scum he spent his entire life trying to rid from the world.

But papers would fly as Hannibal forced Will against the desk in his office, bending him over and taking note of the way Will’s hips slam against the sharp wooden corners, storing the mental promise of fresh bruises away in his mind for a later date.

Of course, Will would beg, because even though Hannibal was the one losing his grip on reality, Will would still be the one chasing after Hannibal’s tail without a single clue as to why he was even doing it in the first place.  He wanted what knew he shouldn’t want, but Hannibal didn’t give him the time to sit down and think it over.

No, because that would scare Will away, and Hannibal has already fought so hard to keep him right where he is.

There wouldn’t be any preparation.  Will would like the pain despite his complaints and Hannibal would lose himself in the torn skin and fresh blood. 

Hannibal would intertwine their fingers as he pressed a quick kiss to the salty expanse of Will’s back.  Will would cry out and Hannibal would be forced to expel the burning sensation at the back of his throat with a pointed roughness that even he knew was too much for Will’s first time with another man.

But the smell of blood would be intoxicating and Hannibal would be long gone by then, hands slipping through wet crimson and fingernails digging into the nicked teeth of old metal.  Will would not fight back.

He wouldn’t know how.

Hannibal would bite straight through his own lip.  “Will… _Will_ …”

_“Hann…ibal…Hannibal…”_

Hannibal’s name will be the last word Will Graham ever utters. 

When it’s all over, there will be a brief moment in which Hannibal is broken.  He will clutch at Will’s lifeless body and drop the knife to the floor, screaming at the ceiling as he begged for forgiveness from a silent God.

No forgiveness would come, however, for Hannibal is a man of many mistakes and misfortunes, and it would only be proper for him to lose the only thing that ever mattered.

Hannibal will stand staring at the curve of Will’s spine, and he will smile despite the moisture that pools in his eyes and slides down the rise of his cheeks. 

“Poor Will,” he will sigh, regaining composure with a few blinks and a forced smile.  “So young, so unfortunate.  To die in such an awful position.”

He will remove himself from the crime scene, but only after checking to make sure that everything was absolutely spotless.  (Well, spotless in the sense that Hannibal Lecter’s fingerprints are nowhere to be found anywhere near Will Graham’s body.)

He will use his bitten lip as an excuse.  A necessary run to the bathroom to stitch himself up with the meager mess of medical supplies he keeps hidden in his desk drawer, just in case.

He will feign complete and utter devastation at the loss of his beloved comrade; will even bury his head in Alana Bloom’s shoulder as she clings to his neck for support.

“Who could have done this?  Hannibal, who?”

“I don’t know,” he’ll say, eyes heavy with remorse.  “I don’t know.”


End file.
